Monday, July 11, 2011

Maktub




 One sheet of rice paper. The postmark is too smudged to read;  there is no return address.  I scrutinize the blank page; words appear just to fade, and change into something else.  At the cusp between meaning and nonsense, an apophenia induced alphabet leads me deep.  All day, the sun reveals a parade of fresh permutations. By nighttime, I know even less.  If ink words were less ambiguous than these, I would consider my time wasted.

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